


Drabble Dump

by Vrunka



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Consensual Gang Bang, Drabbles, Drug Use, Gang Bang, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-07 07:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: Drabbles that I have been posting on Tumblr complied here for ease of read I guess. Chapters are unrelated unless stated otherwise.Mostly Roseph.





	1. Bad Influences

**Author's Note:**

> Robert goes to powder his nose and all I can think of is Pulp Fiction...

He needs to stop letting Robert talk him into things.

He slides his finger through the line, collecting the out of place powder on his fingertip. Slipping it into his mouth to rub it against his gums.

Robert shivers.

His cock leaks against his stomach.

But he manages to stay still enough that the line of coke goes nowhere. Joseph is, begrudgingly, a little impressed.

The taste is more chemical than Joesph remembers. College was a long time ago, a really long time ago, there's a good chance they've changed the shit that goes into blow.

This was a bad idea. Joseph is already feeling it. He runs his finger parallel to the line, under the pretense of straightening it further, when really he just wants to watch Robert squirm and twitch and try not to buck.

The coke against Robert's dark skin is almost poetic in contrast.

God, Joseph really has lost his touch for this.

He licks his lips and Robert shudders an exhale. Watching him with those dark eyes. Dark circles. Thin hips.

Joseph leans in close. Exhaling onto Robert's belly. The head of his cock, laying so flat and large and perfect and coke covered. Joseph presses a finger to his nostril and snorts the line of powder up.

Robert's cock does flex this time, it bumps against Joseph's chin. Some of the powder down near the base scatters. Jospeh flattens his tongue and licks it off.

It hits his sinuses like a rocket.

Sudden, spreading stars.

Adrenaline.

Joseph opens his mouth to gasp, blinking, his body remembers those party days all too well. Robert's hand is in his hair, Joseph doesn't fight when Robert feeds his dick between his lips.

Robert cursing and grunting and thrusting. His pupils pinpoints. On edge too long. His cock cuts off Joseph's airway, slipping down his throat.

The coke delays the scratching panic that would normally follow such rough ministrations.

Joseph's eyelids flutter. Swallowing convulsively. Like he is floating. The lack of air doesn't matter. The good feeling in his skin matters, the feeling of Robert's trembling thighs beneath his hands.

And Robert's come, thick and molten hot against the soft muscles in the back of his throat. Overwhelming. But so good. Robert manhandles him up to shoot the last of it across Joseph's lips, his chin.

It drips off Joseph's face and patters, soft and pink to Robert's thighs and stomach.

Pink?

"Oh shit," Robert says. Sitting up. Hand pinching Joseph's nose. Hauling Joseph forward by that grip. Pressing the sheet against him, rubbing it under his nose and across his lips.

Blood in the sheets.

Dark red.

Joseph stares at it.

"Oh," he says.

"Oh?" Robert echoes. Not shrill, but clearly concerned. "What harm can a single line do, that was what you said wasn't it?"

Joseph swipes his hand under his nose. The flow is already starting to staunch. Tacky on his knuckles.

"It's not a big deal. I...just been while."

"A while. Jesus, Christiansen." He narrows his eyes. Wipes the blanket over his own thighs. "You're something else, you know that?"

Joseph shrugs. Grins. Something else. Not the first time he's been told as much.

Robert isn't the first to tell him.

Mary, just a little crazy-eyed, hands clapped over Chris' ears; she hadn't been the first to tell him it either. 'Jesus,' she had hissed, 'you're really something else.'

Joseph closes his eyes. Rolls to sink down in Robert's bed. He's a bad person, that's what he is. The cocaine is supposed to shield him from it.

"If you're gonna be sick," Robert says, "the bathroom's down the hall. Don't vomit in my bed, Christiansen."

Joseph shudders, nods. "Not gonna." He looks over his shoulder. Robert is staring at him. Flat, blank stare. Bloodstains on his sheets. Joseph should probably offer to cover that.

But he can't form the words right now.

Robert's eyes narrow. "You can stay the night if you need to," he says. This whole thing was never supposed to be about that. 'Wanna snort a line to help loosen you up' is hardly an offer for intimacy. Doing it off Rob's dick had been Joseph's stupid idea.

His stomach cramps.

"It's okay," he says. He forces himself to stand up. His legs shake as he stands. The room sort of swoops. Maybe he was wrong about not feeling sick. He stumbles from the room, beelining for the bathroom.

The tile is a cold and merciful relief against his knees. His whole body trembling as he leans over the toilet to vomit. Not much in his stomach to expel. Thin and white and watery. Mucous-like. Come. Joseph leans his head back.

The bathroom lighting is too harsh. Makes the skin of his arms appear transparent. His hands are shaking on the toilet seat. He flushes, only flinches a little as the drains wash his sick away.

"I should have asked I guess," Robert says. From the doorway. Joseph flinches harder this time, not expecting the company. "I thought it's what you...offering to touch someone's cock usually has those sort of implications."


	2. Glass Pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening: Old College Try by the Mountin Goats. Those people who hurt each other and just won't let go.

Shards of glass is what it is. A nice knickknack shattered.

Robert turns the whiskey in his hand so the melting ice clatters and sinks.

Mary and Joseph fighting again. He can tell by the way Mary is sulking. The shade of her lipstick. The circles under her eyes. She'll be painted the bad guy by the neighborhood again. Hell, maybe she is the bad guy.

They don't get her like Robert does.

"Want me to talk to him?"

She looks up at him. Her eyes are round and doe-like and trembling. Watery. She'll blame that on the whiskey. If she had her way they'd be drinking wine. But she isn't paying.

Or maybe she is.

"Do you actually want to?" she asks. Her lip raises. "Can you actually stand it? God, he's so self-righteous."

"He got the kids tonight?"

She shakes her head. "On that fucking boat of his. Margaritaville. Son of a bitch." She sneers again. "I'm not drunk enough for this."

"You haven't even finished what you've got."

She tips the glass. Drinks deep. The ice shifts. Robert's own is melting, cool condensation against his fingertips. An ice cube crunches between her teeth.

Robert doesn't ask where her kids are. He doesn't really want to know the answer.

"Will you?"

"Talk to him?"

Mary sighs. Pinches the bridge of her nose. "Just do something."

Robert nods. He downs his drink. Watered down, he shouldn't have let it sit so long. Mary watches him go. A broken ornament. A China doll.

\--

Robert has only seen Joseph drunk maybe a handful of times. And usually nothing harder than pink-cheeked merriment.

By the time he arrives at Joseph's floating casa de Margarita, Joseph is fucking smashed.

Laying on a recliner staring up at the sky with one, two, three bottles of wine open and empty beneath him. When the Christiansens explode they do it messy. At least Robert can appreciate the subtly of his own breakdowns better.

Joseph rolls his head as Robert climbs the ladder unannounced and uninvited. He smiles, flat and painful. Waves a hand.

"Come on over," he says. Drunk. Fucking drunk. "Come to give me Mary's latest regards."

Robert shrugs. He takes a seat. When Joseph sits up, sways drunkenly forward--a hand, catching himself on Robert's thigh--Robert realizes his mistake. Joseph's breath is thick, even with a handbreadth of space between them, Robert can smell it. Fruity from the wine.

Similar vices.

Made for each other.

Matching pieces, a set, a pair.

"She told you what happened?"

"I assume the same thing that always happens."

"You gonna ask who started it?"

"You know I don't really care about that."

Joseph looks down. Licks his lips. His porcelain skin. Those cheekbones like a marble statue. "Of course you don't," Joseph says, "so long as you get some cock out of it."

Robert blinks. The accusation, while not wrong, certainly doesn't sound right coming from Joseph. Joseph of all people with his damn Christian living. His born again loudness.

"You're a fucking spider," Joseph says.

"And you're drunk."

Joseph grins winks. "At least in the morning one of those things will be gone."

Touché. Again. Robert returns the grin.

Maybe he should get Joseph drunk more often.

\--

Joseph is heavy. Even with an arm holding up a majority of his weight, he easily presses Robert into the mattress.

Tangled in the sheets. The pillows tossed aside. Another bottle of wine rolling with them. Drips and stains of purple on the Egyptian cotton.

Robert hates wine. Goes to his head too quickly. Makes him sweat. He arches his back, hisses when it makes Joseph slide deeper. Hips colliding solidly with Robert's ass.

"Sorry," he says. Swallowing. Breathing in Robert's ear. The arm holding his weight trembling. Elbow locked. That damn tattoo.

Evidences of the person Joseph used to be. Paint flaking away.

"You good to go?"

Always the gentleman. Robert sighs, arches again, the curve makes his spine ache and itch. A tickle of sweat and lube creeps from his ass down to the bottom of his shoulder blades.

Is this what Mary sends him for?

She knows. It doesn't take much to figure it out. Is this her permissions? Her apology? Does it matter?

It doesn't.

He does what he can for them both, though he'll never admit it.

He does what he can.

And this...this.

This he is good at.


	3. Glass Pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation from part 1. Vague Cult Daddy Joe references and Gore warning

His hand itches.

After.

Laying in the dark.

The movement of the room. Lapping with the waves. Robert breathes.

Little glass ornaments shattering, shattering.

He has to pee.

Gently, carefully, tender as he can he slips from under Joseph's arm, out of the bed. Feet against the hardwood. Goosepimples over his arms.

Joseph sighs in his sleep. Turns over. Tattoos in the dark. Distractedly, Robert picks at his. The sea air prickles over his bare chest, even down here where it is supposed to be sheltered.

Mary knows. Of course she knows. She sends him here to take the edge off. Except.

Except.

Except it's been different lately and Robert wonders if it's not his own glass giving under the pressure. His own little keepsake spiderwebbing with cracks.

He finds Joseph's sweater, discarded down on the floor. Baby blue that looks oh so good against his skin. Not as good against Robert's; but it'll do.

He climbs up to the deck.

Scratching at the tattoo.

The itch of it. The reminder.

The marina is quiet save for the creaking of the boats. The gentle kiss of the waves. Robert rolls his neck, stiffness in the muscles. Bruising right above the vertebra. He doesn't need to see it to know he could count Joseph's teeth in his skin if he wanted.

The gentleman up until...

Robert sighs. Slips the sweater up and holds his cock over the railing. Peeing is a relief. Fucking wine.

Fucking wine.

He shakes his cock. Lets the last drops be swallowed by the sea. Joseph has a bathroom, down there, in the cabin. But Robert can't stand to be down there right now.

Sometimes he can forget.

Right now is not one of those times.

The tattoo itches.

God, it itches.

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he finds himself in one of the deck chairs. Feet up.

The sweater has ridden up. His belly and cock exposed. The stretch of his thighs. The dark hair across them, silver in the moonlight. Idly he traces his fingers across his abs, curls them to drag the nails through the hair just above his cock.

He breathes through his teeth.

"You stole my sweater." Joseph's voice behind him. A playful accusation. Hands come down, part through Robert's hair. Stroking down his cheeks.

They cup his chin, tip his head back.

Joesph smiling.

His teeth are luminous and white.

And Robert wants to break every one of them. Shatter them. His Adam's apple bobs, breathing speeding up, it hits the back of Joseph's hands on every inhale.

"It looks good on you."

"Yeah?"

"Mm."

"Time is it?"

"Little before three."

Of course it is. There's power in the numbers. Robert closes his eyes again as Joseph leans close. Kissing his eyelids, the tip of his nose.

"You wanna come back to bed?" Joseph asks.

More than anything, Robert does not. He lifts a hand to wind it through Joseph's hair, pulls until he can drag Joseph's mouth against his own.

"Here is fine," he says.

And he thinks of the knives.

And he thinks of the children.

"Kinky," Joseph says. "I like that. Anyone could see us out here."

But he's sliding a hand down Robert's body anyway. Fingers pressing the wool rough against Robert's nipples.

"Sorry," he says when Robert winces. Always the gentleman. Always the--

"Fuck!" Robert arches as Joseph palms his cock. Tugging it, deft fingers, slipping against the root. "Joe, I--"

Joseph hums, his mouth finds Robert's pulse. Teeth against it, gnawing. And he can't stop thinking of the knifes. Lined up in a row. He's started keeping them. Collecting them on the off chance.

On the off chance that--

The spiderwebs are coming apart, the pieces are shifting, not holding their form; Robert can't make them, shaking apart and his cock is so soft and he thinks--

Stabbing Jospeh.

It's what gets him there.

A pathetic hard-on in Joseph's skilled hands. And he thinks of driving a knife through Joseph's eye, or maybe his throat. And ending this.

His tattoo burns.

He bites at his own lips.

He doesn't know if he can come like this, leaking feebly already, no release of tension as he shifts and moans. Building and building.

There's really only one way to find out.


	4. First Time for Everything

"Just like that," Joseph says. "Oh God, Rob, shit."

His hands are tangled in the sheets, gripping the material so hard it almost hurts Robert to look at it. Robert's legs tighten around Joseph's hips. The inseams catch, Robert's shins folded up around Joseph's thighs.

The muscles in Joseph's back tremble. A slight sheen of sweat across the pale skin, glistening.

"You're so tight," Robert says, leaning forward, dropping his weight to whisper into Joseph's ear. Hands spreading across his shoulder blades, digging into the firm resistance.

Joseph hisses. Arches. His face turns toward where Robert is breathing in his ear. Robert turns his hand to run the knuckles up Joseph's spine, working the tension as he goes. When Joseph shifts beneath him again, purposefully pushing his ass up against Robert's crotch, Robert chuckles. Grinds back.

The blush that spread across Joseph's cheeks and his shoulders and the top of his back is cute.

Innocent.

That's what Robert had thought at first, still kind of thinks. Cheating on his wife takes some of those points away but still. The youth pastor looking for someone to help fill his unfulfilling marriage.

Someone to give him this.

Robert presses forward again. Rocking his hips just hard enough to simulate the way he would fuck him. Rough. Christ, he'd keep Joseph begging beneath him.

The massage is forgotten.

Joseph's hand finds Robert's hair, pulling, the angle of his elbow, on his shoulder must be hell. Robert relocates his own hands to Joseph's waist. Holds him by the beltloops as he dry humps him.

"Oh fuck," Joseph says. Eyes squeezed shut. His palm is warm and dry against Robert's cheek. "Rob, oh, oh..."

"Want more?"

Joseph bites his lip until it goes all pretty and pink and glistening. He nods. His eyes still closed. Imagining his wife doing this to him maybe? Getting off on the idea of her pegging him. Robert has only seen her once, pregnant and round and sitting in the bay window of her house. Their eyes had locked. Neither of them had waved.

He had kind of liked that.

But he doesn't feel bad for this.

He flips Joseph over, lifts his weight just enough to roll the blond's hips beneath his own. The front of Joseph's slacks are a mess. A wet spot to the right of the zipper. Those nice, innocent khakis ruined.

"You're really into this," Robert says. He can't mask the amazement. He wouldn't have ever considered himself that good a lay. Maybe it's the sordidness, the whole cheating thing, the cock against his ass thing. First times are weird like that.

Joseph's hands move to cover his face. Fingers against his brow. Prefect hair hanging sweaty across them. His throat bobs, pale with the dusting of blush down his jaw and over his Adam's apple.

Robert places his teeth against it, the vibrations of Joseph's gasping reverberating through his bones.

He bites him.

Not gentle.

He wants this to be there in the morning. He wants sweet, innocent, pastor Joseph to remember this.

Joseph opens his mouth to moan. His hips flex; tented crotch fucking up against Robert's abs. It's almost too easy.

Robert runs his teeth lower, his stubble scraping that white, pristine skin. Little raised marks in his wake. Little red lines.

He bites down where Joseph's neck meets his torso, right above the collarbone. He sucks the skin until Joseph is mewling and cursing beneath him.

Not words a pastor should say. A youth minister at that.


	5. Absurd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damien is too sweet to get wrapped up in this mess. Threesome. Strap ons. Spoilers I suppose.

It's not like this is something they do often.

Or at least.

Damien doesn't think so. He hopes not. Can't be healthy. All this blood loss.

He tightens the strap on his hip, adjusting the harness to better fit snugly across his torso. Joseph had already had it, had handed it to him with a wink.

Damien isn't sure still how he feels about that. About any of this.

He sweeps his hand down Joseph's chest, blood tacky (both meanings; the mental word choice is poignant and important) against his fingers. Over Joseph's shoulder, Robert lets out what can almost only be called a growl.

He tugs on Damien's wrist and sucks the blood off each digit. Crimson going in, emerging white as bone.

Damien swallows.

His fingers twitch against Robert's mouth. The warm cavity of it. Robert's eyes bore into his. There is a claim.

This is a claim.

Damien is just a visitor here.

And he's fine with that, really.

He ruts the silicone cock up against Joseph's thighs. Gently teasing the dildo between them. Intercrural with a strap on seems silly, pointless, but Damien's heart is beating faster regardless. Mouth dry as he finds a place Robert hasn't cut up yet on Joseph's neck and kisses the flushed and sweaty skin.

Joseph turns his head, mouth open, too fucked up and fucked out to even kiss properly. His breath blooms across Damien's cheek. He grunts when Robert flicks the edge of the knife against his belly.

A little more blood down his thighs. Onto the sheets.

Damien is absurdly grateful they didn't want to do this at his place.


	6. Line in the Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dadsona is welcomed to the neighborhood.

He hadn't really thought this part through. It had seemed, while not like a good idea, an alright one two nights ago.

The guy had looked so cute, flushed, teased by Mary. Just a little rumpled. And he'd been so eager, pressing into Robert's hands in the dark.

But it isn't dark now. It's bright and it's sunny and loud at the barbecue; surrounded by the neighbors. The new guy looks a little shell-shocked. Ripped from his territory. Robert appreciates the sentiment, even if he doesn't sympathize.

He's not gonna be the one to approach the subject, that's for sure.

He twirls his whiskey. Glances over at Mary. Their eyes meet, she tips her wine. Then--distracted, Joseph calling her name--she turns her head. Robert follows as she goes.

Stupid.

It's a mistake.

The new guy looks like...like he's seeing an idol, right here on earth. Behind his glasses his eyes are huge, stuck on Joseph's hands as he talks about something. His kids probably. The twins, on either side of his hip, smiling that vacant way they do when they're playing creepy.

The new guy looks enraptured.

In love.

Already.

Robert's maybe not as surprised as he wants to be. A little more hurt than he wants to admit. And scared.

Yeah, that too.

Down in his gut.

Bad things. Bad feelings.

The new guy laughs, blushing, rolls his head. He catches Robert staring and goes even more crimson. For a second Robert can feel the hot pass of Joseph's gaze as well and then it is gone.

Joseph grins, reaches out to clamp a hand on the new guy's shoulder. His fingers squeeze. Robert can see it from here.

Battle lines.

This is a challenge.

\--

"Jealous?" Joseph asks. An arm on each side of Robert's torso, keeping him pinned against the counter. Could be taken as teasing if anyone else were to catch them.

It's not like their...thing was a secret exactly.

Joseph loved how Robert looked in his sweater.

And he keeps it close, tied around his shoulders now. The sleeves just brushing the middle of Robert's chest.

"I didn't even say anything to him," Robert says. "I'm sure you noticed."

Joseph grins. "I noticed. You're sulking."

Robert is not. The accusation makes him wince anyway. Joseph chuckles, his fingers brush down Robert's arm. The jacket does nothing to stop him. A piece of clothing like any other.

And besides, maybe Robert is sulking, a little. There are so many complicated layers here.

"I fucked him already if that...changes things."

Joseph blinks, his eyes narrow. "What was it like?"

Robert licks his lips. A hundred things surface. Warm. Clumsy. Not as good as with Joseph. He shakes his head.

"I don't..."

"Kiss and tell, oh Rob."

"Robert."

Joseph chuckles. "Bobby."

"Stop." Authority in it. Robert isn't sure where he scraped it up from. With other people it's easy to be cold and aloof, not with Joseph. Those fucking layers.

Joseph holds up his hands, steps back. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Joke's over then."

The joke has been over for a long, long time.


	7. College Days (Remember That Time)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qyoo wanted gang bang college Craig so have some gang bang college Craig. Charlie is her dadsona and he's the actual cutest!

Charlie had asked him once, grinning in that way that makes Craig's stomach cramp and butterfly, how many dicks it took to get used to the taste of come.

"How many loads do you have to swallow, man, before you can say with a straight face that it tastes good?"

And instead of answering, Craig had just punched him.

Because at the time it had been easier than trying to discuss it. Failing at discussing it. Ruining what they had by...discussing it.

Because there's a lot that Charlie doesn't know.

That Charlie cannot fucking know.

Like this, for instance:

Craig is on his knees--not quite drunk enough to be down here, but down here anyway--with Emile Henassey's cock in his throat. His skin feels tight, sweaty, too many bodies pressed in too close. He feels like he is steaming, like it is rolling off of him and into the winter air.

Outside like the heathens they are. Horny college students.

Four altogether; though two of the dudes Craig only really knows from seeing them between classes. Headed from one hall to another. Or maybe at a party. No time to really look at them before Tom Rush had pushed him down to his knees and he'd found himself with a face full of Henassey dick.

But at least they'd given him a shot first, so that's something. A pleasant enough buzz in his knuckles. Straight bourbon from a flask.

"Wow," Henassey says, rolling his hips; the zipper of his jeans biting into Craig's chin, "oh fuck. Didn't know you were this good at it, Cahn."

Behind Craig, a set of legs presses against his back. Another to the right, jean-clad. Probably Tom. The bottom of the sweater that Craig can see out of the corner of his eye looks like Tom's style.

"I told you," the guy to the right says and yeah that's definitely Tom's voice, "he loves it too, don't you, Craig?"

"Filthy cockslut," someone behind him says. A hand groping his bicep, pulling up until his palm meets the warm, fevered flesh of a second cock.

He tugs it, gripping firmly at the base in admonition of the name calling. Doesn't matter if it's true, it's not like they have to say it. He lifts his right hand automatically when he hear the tell-tale give of Tom's zipper.

Tom's cock is thicker than the others too. Shorter, fatter. More like Charlie's, which is a dangerous thought but Craig allows it. He looks up under his lashes at Tom, then looks back down.

Their faces aren't close enough.

The mental images are better.

His knees are cold. The bitter winter concrete biting through the material of Craig's sweatpants. The fourth guy, nebulous and lost somewhere behind must have been the one who called him a slut. He's still talking, goading the other three on.

"Look at him," the guy says, "you're hogging the good part you know that, Henassey. His mouth warm? Jesus, it's fucking freezing out here."

It is cold--sheltered between two buildings has cut down the wind chill some, but the night air has Craig a little windburned; red fingered.

"Take another shot then," Henassey says. His cock slipping free from Craig's lips. The sound of the flask changing hands above him.

Craig cranes his neck to lap at the thick, fat head of Tom's dick. Reluctantly he leans over to the same to the other guy's. A burst of precome across his tongue, sticky, salty.

"You want another shot too," Henassey asks and the cold silver metal of the flask shines in front of Craig's eyes.

Henassey is smiling when Craig looks up at him.

"Sure," he says.

The metal lip is somewhat warm against him, a transfer of body heat one mouth to another. Henassey' hand pushes the flask just a little too far, it knocks against Craig's teeth, splashes into the back of his throat.

Craig pulls back, coughing. Hand leaving the stranger's dick to wipe across his mouth. The bourbon shoots straight up his spine. Warmth blooming in his stomach. He hates the flavor of it, truly, but it does its job.

"I can take two of you at once," Craig says. Voice shaking; the cold, the alcohol, who knows. The fourth guy's hands--he's wearing gloves the detail is distracting--touch Craig's chin.

"Bet you can," he says. He's better looking than Craig wants to give him credit for, nerdier looking than the other three jocks who are stroking their own dicks and watching. "Bet you'd look good with two cocks in your throat."

How many dicks does it take?

Charlie had asked that.

How many dicks?

What would he say if he could see Craig now? Is it enough dicks? Would he be blushing? Would he get that same look that he gets when he watches Craig go down on Aaron or Kevin or Matt? That pouting, grumpy little frown.

Would he be hard? Watching Craig debase himself like this.

Craig smiles, the fourth guy probably thinks it's for him, cuz he smiles back. His breath plumes past his teeth. Craig is sweating under his jacket and shirt, it trickles down his sides, damp and cold.

"I have a key to the labs," the fourth guy says.

Craig swallows.

How many dicks?

How many fucking cocks?

"I have condoms," he offers.

A deal and terms and the answer is never enough.

\--

"Shit," he says. Hands grabbing at Tom's thighs, skin beneath his nails, ragged little tears in the flesh. He'd apologize, the scrapes are red and telling on the pale landscape, but when he opens his mouth to, Tom shoves his cock back inside.

The protest, the apology, the indignity all die in Craig's throat.

He feels raw, expanded. The two guys that he does not know are settling into a rhythm, but the stretch is still insane, painful. Lube and condoms not quite enough to compensate for two dicks in his ass.

He feels swollen. His own dick is limp between his thighs. Come three times already. Twice when the fourth guy had shoved his cock in along with the other, taking, taking.

Permission is...a grey area.

Craig is fine with that.

It's better than talking about it.

Henassey has been relegated to the sidelines. His come is still drying on the apples of Craig's cheeks, and his chin. Someone had slapped Craig's hands when he had tried to wipe it away.

Craig suspects it was the fourth guy, the one crowded behind him, biting at his shoulder, moisture soaking into Craig's t-shirt. The one who is currently setting the pace, hunching his hips to fuck shallowly into Craig's body.

Surprisingly gentle.

Or maybe that's just because there isn't much room to maneuver with the third dude's cock stuck up there as well.

Craig shudders at the thought, lips flexing around their burden. Trying to breath past the intrusion. His spine twinges. Overloaded. His senses sort of reel.

Like there is a wall of glass between him and what is happening. Too much sensation to take in at once. It permeates to him slowly. Filtered.

His legs are shaking.

He sucks a ragged breath through his nose and thrusts his tongue right under the crown of Tom's cock, over and over.

Something he usually saves for Charlie.

Charlie.

If they were all Charlie. If they were all Charlie. He shouldn't indulge in the thought, does anyway. It's a transgression against his best friend, his occasional friend with benefits.

Overspent, his cock still manages to twitch. A hand wraps around it, covering the head and Craig flinches away. A cock in him slides deeper than the other. The one in his mouth pulses down his throat.

"Coming," Tom grunts and someone's hand is in Craig's hair, pulling until his neck is craned back and the load gets delivered across his face instead.

The guy beneath him grunts.

Teeth at the nape of his neck.

And Craig just keeps thinking about Charlie. And the blush against his skin tone. And his hands, knuckles stroking down Craig's cheeks. His cock oozes, unable to come again, a soft orgasm rippling through him. Dry. Just as shocking.

A new layer of slick under his eyes, across his nose.

"Fuck you, Collins," Tom says. But he doesn't really sound mad. It takes Craig a second. Collins? Collins?

"Bite me, Rush," the fourth guy says. The hand releases Craig's hair, and Craig lets his head lull forward.

Someone presses the flask against his lips and he drinks. It burns, his lips are chapped and parched and it doesn't help.

He doesn't even feel drunk anymore.

Sweating it out.

When he moves, when the third guy slides loose--his dick limp, spent, Craig missed it somehow--Craig feels the first shuddering of pain up his spine. His asshole aches.

But the fourth guy...

The fourth guy isn't done. He tugs Craig up against him. Hand on his throat, hand on his hip. Fucking into him, sawing back and forth. The condoms keep it less messy. The slide doesn't feel as sloppy as it should.

Craig gulps. The hand on his throat tightens. Harder to breathe past than the cock had been. How is that for stupid?

Craig arches, moans.

He can't do this.

Charlie wouldn't do him like this.

The guy comes and it is blessed relief. His pull out is a mess. The condom comes off, contents dripping out over Craig's thighs and shins.

The fourth guy laughs. Tom laughs. Craig closes his eyes.

\--

"Wow man, you look like shit," Charlie says as Craig stumbles into the dorm sometime later. Like an old man. Backache, legs like jelly. The alcohol he had thought gone making it's roaring return.

"Thanks," Craig says. He manages a grin. He hopes it doesn't look as ghastly as it feels.

Slowly, Charlie returns it.

"Need me to get you anything," Charlie asks. And that's why Craig loves him. That. That right there.

"No," Craig says, falling into his bed. "Just...some peace and quiet, huh?"

Charlie grins. "Sure thing, man. Like I'm not even here."

But he is here.

And that's what Craig loves.


	8. Part 1 Bruises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some craigbert for Karu! There will be at least two more parts to this series, maybe three. Posted to Tumblr most likely before here but...

The question starts with a bite. Robert's teeth marking right at the juncture where Craig's shoulder blades start. The right shoulder. The defined sculpt of his muscle.

Robert digs in, sucks the skin between his teeth, soothing the bite mark with his tongue; fully expecting to be told off. Craig is vain, for his own reasons sure, but vanity is vanity. Robert doesn't expect him to shudder beneath him.

Robert doesn't expect him to like it.

"You can do that again," Craig says, over his shoulder. Tipping his head so the slope of his neck is bared. The pale column of it. Thumping pulse and all.

Joseph had been into it too. Harmony where Robert had been sort of looking for dissonance.

He licks his lips.

Runs his fingernails down Craig's sides, just to feel Craig squirm and curse beneath him. He circles a finger where he is buried in Craig's ass. Connected. The squeezing, maddening softness.

"You sure?" He asks. "It's gonna be visible to all your little...gym buddies."

Craig snorts, his hips move. Fucking himself on Robert's cock. "Don't care," he says. "Not like its permanent. You can mark me up a little, Robert. It's pretty hot."

And arguing while fucking is not so much.

So Robert leans further in, chest flat to Craig's back, hair slicking through the gathered sweat, the defined muscles bunching and rolling beneath him. He drags his lips over Craig's pulse.

Life beneath his skin. The steady thumping beat of it. Craig is so together, on top of things, whole. Robert resents him for that, just a little.

He bites.

It starts it.

"What else are you into that you've neglected to tell me," Robert asks.

When it is over. And they are laying on their respective sides of the bed.

Craig is still catching his breath. A hand over his eyes. Chest rising and falling and a map of bruises. Robert's teeth, in some places, can be counted. Incisor, canine all in a row.

Craig grins. Peeks out from under his hand. His eyes are brown and glittering.

"You really wanna know?"

Does he?

Robert swallows.

And nods.


	9. Part 2 Breathless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation from Bruises. Breathplay, choking and a poor choice of safewords.

Robert digs his thumb in. The hollow of Craig's throat trembles beneath him. He can feel Craig's pulse, erratic, thumping, strong, against his palms.

Craig takes a breath. His chest expands between Robert's knees.

It's the last he'll take for a while.

Robert presses. CPR training, leaning forward so his shoulders are parallel to his elbows, parallel to his wrists. Leveling his weight. That it would be used for this, so against its intended purpose, almost makes Robert laugh.

His erection, rubbing just below Craig's pecs, keeps him from laughing.

He sees the split second panic flicker across Craig's eyes as he settles. Shifting and animal and natural. As natural as breathing; suddenly terrified when he cannot.

"You good?" Robert asks.

Craig makes a noise. It reverberates through Robert's palms. Humming affirmation.

The bruises haven't faded on his neck yet. Robert can just see them beneath his hands. Tender still probably; gone yellow but not red yet. He presses harder against that spot.

Craig hums again, more frantic this time, an octave Robert can hear, whistling out from his throat. Tremulous. Reedy. Craig bucks beneath him and Robert's first instinct is to let go.

But he doesn't.

He hangs on. Crosses his thumbs to lock them tighter.

Craig's hands find his wrists. Holding them in place. Nails against the skin. One hooks around to claw at the arch of Robert's palm. Tearing against the tattoo. And Robert doesn't even think about it even though part of him longs to.

He lifts just enough that Craig can gasp.

Drowning.

On dry land.

Craig heaves, and Robert finds himself rocking with the motion, tipping his hips to rut his cock into the valley of Craig's chest. Plush and plump muscle. God the guy is so built. Fucking made for this.

The angle doesn't allow for the same pressure, Robert has to slide back again to allow for his full weight to cut off Craig's airway.

Craig's lips move. Eyes fluttering.

His scar is pale, cutting through his eyebrow. And the bruises are dark.

And Craig is...

Robert loosens his grip again. And Craig is breathless and red-cheeked and moaning beneath him.

"Word?"

"Nessie," Craig says. Almost derisive. Pulling on Robert's wrists until his palms are laying flat and sweaty against the skin once more. "Fucking bigfoot, bro."

Not Mothman.

Robert lays his weight on the tender expanse of Craig's throat once more.


	10. Part 3 Balance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Part 2 Breathless.

"This ones a little trickier," Craig says. His voice is gravel. Robert's hands still captured in shadow across the column of his throat.

Most of the bite marks have healed over.

Craig spins the knife, showy and deft, flipping it from hand to hand. Robert swallows. This is the floodgate, the man who had denied himself so many things suddenly drowning in the excess of it. They're supposed to be helping one another.

But all Robert's done so far is encourage and enable and indulge.

"You're looking a little out of your element there, bro," Craig says. "Thought you liked knives."

"In their intended setting."

"I'll talk you through the whole thing," he says. "Communication is total key here. But we don't have to do this if you don't want to. The choking bit's been fun. You seem really into it." Craig grins. Falters when he sees the way Robert flinches.

Those old wounds they both pretend he doesn't have.

"I just meant--"

"It's fine. Doesn't matter anyway."

"I..." Craig's eyebrows flex. He puts the knife down. Sits crosslegged on the bed. "Dude...Robert. You know you can." He shrugs. Palms the back of his head.

They've managed to not talk about it this far.

"You know everyone's been really worried about you, right?" Craig says. It's framed as a question, doesn't feel like a question.

Robert shrugs. Craig doesn't mean everyone. He means Sebastian, that one glaring link that have.

"Are we really gonna talk about this right now?" Robert asks. Leaning forward, eyes on Craig's lips.

Craig doesn't raise to the bait. Damn him.

"If not now, when? If I've learned one thing since..." Craig swallows. "I'm here for you, Robert. I've--I've got your back, okay?"

Okay. Robert thinks.

Okay.

He opens his mouth. And he talks.


	11. Cleanse, Bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having writer's block lately. This is how I deal with it I guess.

He's a mess.

It tastes like acid, in the back of his throat. Bile and spittle and thickness. He's a mess. And he doesn't deserve this.

It doesn't matter.

He doesn't matter.

"You alright," the voice above him asks. Steady. And calm. Barely a hint of anything; not out of breath. "We can stop, if you want."

He does want.

But he won't say it.

He shakes his head. His bangs fall across his eyes and a hand, steady steady steady, fixes them back.

"Joseph," the voice above him says. Same intonation as Mary. A little chiding. "Are you crying?"

Is he?

Joseph takes a breath, shuddering across his tongue. "No," he says and his lips taste like salt. God damn it.

Robert stops. His cock is so thick and full and distracting, he pulls his hips back and Joseph grunts.

"Is it the divorce?"

The divorce and the color-me-concerned look that goes along with it. The paint by numbers give a shit. Joseph's gut clenches worse than just the sloppy pull out should cause.

Robert flips them. Kisses the back of Joseph's neck. The tip of his ear. Fingers brushing down his side. Joseph's own cock is flaccid and pathetic, laying across his thigh with the way Robert spoons them. Robert claims every time that it doesn't bother him, that he's used to it.

"Do you wanna talk about it," he asks Joseph's shoulder. Lips moving against the skin.

He doesn't mean Joseph's lack of a hard-on.

Joseph is a bad person. And when he stands in front of God, he'll deal with that. Confession--Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred, and strayed from thy ways--cannot cleanse this. The thought makes him ache.

There is no divorce.

There has never been a divorce.

He closes his eyes. Curls tighter into himself. His throat aches, spills down into his gut. Roils with the tequila and crushed ice and the lime.

"Please," Robert says. "You can talk to me." And he is self-aware enough to add: "I'm pretty good at bandaid solutions, Joseph. You want me to get something."

"Thought you were trying to be better."

"Yeah but...maybe better's not what you need right now."

It is, of course. Though they have both shown time and time again their ineptitude at it. Better would have been not letting the man with the wedding ring suck him off in the dingy bar bathroom. Better would have been Joseph not offering in the first place. Better would have been not letting this fester and flower with rot for two months.

They're both bad at better.

So why start now?

"What's your poison?" The man had asked. And that man had been Robert and his poison had been loneliness with a nice side of chemical dependency.

Jospeh had recognized the signs. Dark circles and shaky hands.

But he'd smiled and twirled his wedding ring and had choked down Robert's cock because he wanted to feel alive again. Because his poison was loneliness too.

The moth in the pool, one wing still dry, flapping and flapping in concentric panicked circles spiraling further away from the lane line, from help.

Joseph's life in a series of unhinged metaphors.

"If you think it will help," Joseph says here and now in the dark belly of Robert's room. King-sized bed and dark sheets.

Joseph's soft cock. Robert's softening one.

Robert gets up. Joseph can hear him shuffling around. The bed creaks with his return. A fist slides over Joseph's hip, and presses two little pills into his palm.

Poison.

Bandaid solutions.

And lies.

The Father

The Son

And the Holy Ghost.

And confession will not cleanse him. Confession cannot cleanse him.

He pops the pills, swallows them dry. They don't stick in his throat. They slide down to join the margarita of his stomach. Robert presses another series of sweet kisses across the expanse of Joseph's shoulders.

The one dry wing dips beneath the surface of the pool. The loneliness swells.

And better is far, far behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like all of this please come see my tumblr @vrunkawrites because there's so much art by my crazy talented friends and so much more posted there that won't be moved over here!


End file.
